


Fic: Subtle differences

by basaltgrrl



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Tencest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten and Duplicate Ten have a little time to themselves, and decide to explore their differences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: Subtle differences

 

 

  
There's a time, late in the evening (to the extent that the term means anything, there, in the TARDIS, with the universe aswirl about them, planetoids humming in the void) when the Doctor faces himself with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Settled then?"

"They've all got bedrooms, more or less. Those that want them."

They both lapse into silence. The weird part is, he knows exactly why the other--himself, the Doctor with the blue jacket--went silent just then. It isn't telepathy (knows what that feels like) or some kind of reading of subtle body cues. It's simply that he knows his own thoughts, and he knows that his other self, his clone, his twin, his--oh, this is impossible.

"I never saw this coming," he says. He says it first, just barely.

"I know. I know I'm... new. I'm fresh. I'm the blank slate just written. But--"

"You're nine hundred years old."

"Yes."

They lean together, against the railing, feeling the TARDIS hum and whistle around them, trying not to look into the ancient sadness in each others' eyes--

"Oh, goodness, how melodramatic." Blue Jacket speaks first, this time.

"I know. It happens, sometimes. I blame all those years rubbing shoulders with humans."

"No, you know they're really remarkably resilient and even-tempered. They do very well for themselves. Problem solvers. Creators. Look at--look at Rose, for example. Look how well she's done for herself."

"Yes, she has."

This time they share a smile, the same quirk of the mouth and eyebrow, open admiration, maybe something more.

"Yeah."

"I know."

"Never thought..."

"Brilliant."

"Can't even begin..."

"Don't bother."

Silence again, and with every minute together it's becoming more companionable, more at ease. Not that this surprises him, not really. At first he'd had a knee-jerk reaction to the wrongness--was it wrongness? Was it shock? Was it just the sort of intellectual denial of seeing a copy of himself? But that had passed, hadn't it? And for all that they shared so very much, they were already different people. At a cellular level. The hearts. Or lack thereof.

He looks again at his other self. Skinny bloke, great hair. The improbability of the full lip, the high cheekbones, the astounding vulnerability that he generally prefers to ignore in himself. Does it seem more obvious in someone else, knowing that this was a human, so much more easily broken?

"Don't," says Blue Jacket, picking at a spot on the TARDIS' control console, a worn layer of shellac.

"What?"

"Don't think about me that way."

"How, then?"

They face each other, arms crossed, and then both adjust as it all seems a bit absurd, and then Blue Jacket grins and thrusts his hands into his pockets. "Oh, I have such power over you."

"Ah, yes, but the reverse is just as true."

"Is it?"

He contemplates this other self. Defensiveness in the posture, chin held high, eyes appraising. It isn't so much that he recognizes the posture, not being used to watching himself, but he... he feels it, somehow, in his bones. "I'm so aware of how much you're... me. I'd like to know how much you're you."

"The heart? Aww, it's a steady old thing. Not so different from yours."

"Oh, but it is."

A quiet nod of acknowledgement.

"What else? Do you feel different? Do you have sense-memories of what it was like to be Gallifreyan?"

"We-ell... There is something. So hard to put words to it. Never had to. Never wanted to. Did you ever waste much time thinking about how essentially different Rose was? More important how similar she was, right?" At his nod, Blue Jacket continues. "I do feel a sort of cellular awareness of--not time, but energy. A different sort of skin. It's as if..." He reaches out, brushes a hand across the other's shoulder and up to face, pressing gently with his thumb against Brown Jacket's slack lower lip. "I know what that feels like. And it's not the same. Much more internal."

He'd startled, just then, when touched. It's--weird. Unexpected. He hadn't been ready for touching. But now that it's happened he wants more.

"You don't feel Gallifreyan."

"I'm not."

"Mind if I touch?" He extends his hand toward the lapels of the Blue Jacket.

"Be my guest."

He slips his fingers under the fabric, over the weave of the shirt below, questing, feeling the echo of a heartbeat, the warmth of a body. A quick glance up into the face. A faint smile, a raised eyebrow. He grins in return and brings both hands to bear, unbuttoning the shirt and getting a hand against skin, and yeah, that's better. That--he really can feel some energy. And it really isn't like touching his own chest. So warm. So very warm. Profoundly alive. "I almost envy you," he murmurs, still lost in the tingle of skin against skin. "How is one heart enough?"

"I don't know, but it is, it feels fine, uh, maybe we should, could we--"

"You're uncomfortable?"

"No, it's just, it makes me feel--oh! Maybe we should do this in private?"

"In private?" The question takes him by surprise. At first, absurdly, he thinks Blue Jacket wants privacy from the TARDIS herself, and his mind boggles at what it would take to achieve that; she knows where he is when he's miles away, after all, or even years away. Then the penny drops. The other passengers. The lot of them. "Are we doing something we need privacy for?"

"You've already got me half-undressed, and... well. I am different from you."

"What do you mean?"

Blue Jacket grins openly as he takes one of Brown's hands in his and moves it gently from his chest down, down across fabric and buttons and zips and presses it to the front of his trousers.

"Oh!" There's a shape in there, surprisingly hard and warm even through the layers. He traces the length of it, exploratory. "So... you're going to have the opportunity to explore human mating rituals. Lucky boy."

"Mating implies something, doesn't it? Procreation? I don't have any plans of that sort--just getting used to the ways in which I'm no longer... you." Their hands are still together, touching. That shape in there--his penis--it's harder. It has been so long since the Doctor paid much mind to his own. For all that it's essentially the same as a human's, Gallifreyan mating rituals have progressed, or just changed beyond recognition. The penis is part of the plumbing. It's just there, doing its thing. Not reacting, not responding, not wanting something as if it had a mind of its own...

"Yes, let's move down the hall. The sitting room--"

"I know the one."

"Of course."

The door to the sitting room closes with a firm click, without either of them having to touch it. The TARDIS is looking out for them. They each grin, lopsidedly. "Well, then. Where were we?"

Blue Jacket grins more widely and unzips his trousers. "I believe you were going to take a look at my little problem."

"Not little, and not a problem." He sways closer, all eye contact and bravado, raised chin and open mouth, as if a little startled at himself. It's so easy, ridiculously easy, to swagger around himself, now that he has accepted the initial shock of it all. "So tell me about this." He reaches a hand into the unzipped trousers, low enough to cup the full package, heft it all, elicit a quick intake of breath.

How strange. To watch his own face, the sudden slackness and yearning that he can read in every tiny muscle twitch. It's not that he's never desired, in all his years of Companionship, but he's old enough and wise enough to know that those kinds of liaisons don't solve anything. Essentially, the sexual component doesn't make the relationship better, just more complicated. But this, this new self--at once old and new, he doesn't have that knowledge at the cellular level. His body's all tingling and alive and asking for it.

His hand is tracing the other man's cock through the thin fabric of his pants, and it's so warm, so full, there's so much life and energy there. The Doctor wants more; he pulls the waistband out and gets inside there, skin against skin, feeling the softness and hardness and the always incredible warmth. It's an oddly compelling thing, a penis. When it's engorged like this it's hard not to stroke it.

"Oh," grunts Blue Jacket softly, thrusting into the palm of The Doctor's hand.

"Is that good?" he asks. It's as if he was so lost in the sensation of the cock against his hand that he forgot there was someone else involved in this.

"Yes. You must--don't you remember what it was like?"

No, he thinks, watching the flush rising to the other man's cheeks, watching the head of the other man's cock slide through the clench of his fingers, feeling the urgency thrumming through every point of contact. No, I've totally lost that.

"I don't," he says, softly. "But you're reminding me."

Blue Jacket gasps, leans into him harder, one arm braced over his shoulder. "Harder," he says, and his hips rock in a suggestive rhythm. The Doctor lays his head into the crook of the other man's neck and slides his hand harder, faster--a penis seems fragile, but he's reminded of how much abuse it can take, of how good that can feel. The full length of shaft, the heel of his hand crushing against pubic bone, the vibrating tension and hitching breath.

Oh, basic biology. Oh physical closeness. Oh. How he's known the yearning for this, without taking a single step to make it happen, because he's a thousand years old, give or take a hundred, and it's been a ridiculously long time since he felt the kind of quickening that's thrumming through the other man's body. Even as he works his hand faster, madly on the other's cock, clinging together as if for dear life, his own body is watching and waiting, not responding.

"Oh--oh, I'm going to--it's, oh fuck--" And with that Blue Jacket makes a choked off noise and comes. Ejaculation, the Doctor thinks, with the hot, wet stuff running down his hand. He rolls his face into the blue fabric, one hand still jacking slowly, the other clenched around the other man's back, holding him close. He's breathing the scent--it's his own scent, madly--but there's also the musk, something green and rich and lively.

Blue Jacket heaves a few long, shuddering breaths, and then gives him a little push, laughing. "Enough. I had no idea how--that was really, really... brilliant."

They separate, with a pang. They both feel it, and they both know the other does. "I have not ever done that before. But then, you know that."

"Yeah." His chest is still heaving. "I know. I'd--do it for you, y'know. If--"

"Nah. I don't work that way. Anymore."

"I'm sorry."

"Nah. It's... OK." He lifts his hand to look at the sticky mess, then brings it to his nose for a good sniff. Lord, if you could bottle that stuff... He takes a quick lick, and then a longer, lingering one.

Blue Jacket tucks away and zips up, then finds a handkerchief somewhere and mops at the stain on the front of his trousers.

"To bed then," The Doctor sighs. It seems like such a let-down, after that intimacy. Going their separate ways.

"We might... sleep together?" Blue Jacket looks equal parts hopeful and abashed.

"That's a lovely idea."  
  



End file.
